The Trusting Eyes
by Mythicalnightguard
Summary: What if, ignoring all Night at the Museum logic, there was a war between Romans and cowboys. And what if there was a prisoner. An idea. A possible chance at peace. And what if there was forgiveness, a mutual trust and understanding? And what if there was a price to be paid for sympathy and the possibility of being marked a traitor? What if, there was kindness? No slash. No ships.
1. Chapter 1

The first thing he noticed were the eyes, which wasn't strange, since he had always noticed people's eyes easier than there other features. It was something he was good at, like a talent, a gift, from the gods. Seeing one's eyes was always helpful, and he had the ability to distinguish many things from them. He could tell if someone was happy or sad, if they were angry or annoyed, even if they were stressed or worried. If the eyes were young on an old face, that meant he was faced with a very youthful elder. If they were old, tired eyes on a young face, then the person was probably leading a very stressful, hard life. If they were warm and friendly, then the person was easy going. If they were cold and hard, then they were mistrusting and unhappy. He could also tell the age of a person if he was lucky. And since the eyes were the window to the soul, he could also sometimes detect their personality. But these eyes were different.

They were a light, almost fiery blue, with the pupil a dark island in their centers. They were fierce, and guarded, and very weary. There were many different emotions in those eyes- anger, rage, confusion, irritation, defiance, hate. There were also a few minor emotions- fear, anxiety, timidness. But these emotions were heavily guarded, and very hard to detect beneath the veil of pure hatred and rage that seemed to bombard the general's eyes as he stared into the blaring blue flames.

"Sir," One of the legionaries said, taking a step forwards and saluting. "We have apprehended the enemy's leader."

"That I can see," The general replied, crossing his arms. Though he was not looking at the soldier, his eyes were staring into those of the prisoner. "And how did you come by him?"

"During their last raid, sir," Explained the legionary, in the cool clipped voice of a man giving report. "He was leading the charge, and fell to out cavalry. A good struggle, he put up, and we remembered your orders of capturing alive."

"Indeed," Said the general, trying to ignore the eyes that were staring at him like two icy blades attempting to pierce his soul. "Any others?"

"No, sir. The other cowboys escaped."

With a soundless sigh, the general nodded, and stood before the prisoner. He was a tall, fair man, with yellow-gold hair that hung slightly tangled and ragged a little ways past his chin. He wore a red cloth around his neck, slightly tucked into the folds of his collared blue shirt, which was adorned by a brown leather vest. He wore pale brown pants, and around his waist was a black leather holster and belt, which held no weapon as it had been taken from him before he had entered the room. He also wore black boots on his feet, and his his hat was a light brown, and was cocked backwards in a defiant manner. Definitely the leader. The general spoke.

"Why were you invading our west wall?" He asked, his arms still crossed. "What victory had you to take there?"

"A jail break," The cowboy replied, his voice was icy cold, like his eyes.

"I see. And what, do tell, did you plan to accomplish in this little prison break of yours?"

"Free some'a my men." Was the icy reply.

"And to do this you attack the strongest part of our defenses?" The general questioned, shaking his head. "Very foolish of you."

With a freezing defiance the cowboy lifted his head higher, and stared at his enemy. "We woulda made it, if it ain't fer yer stupid cavalry."

A chuckle from the general was the cowboy's reply. "You are not the only ones who are good with horses. Now, Cordius, Narcissus, take him to one of the empty prison cells. I am going down to the commanding room to speak with Centurion Marcus."

"Yes sir." Was the reply as the soldiers turned to lead the cowboy away.

As the man was led away, the general watched, and felt a little bad about the rough treatment his men were giving the prisoner. But he knew it was necessary, after all. War was not for the faint of heart. But as the man was led away through the door, he turned and cast a glance in his direction. And the general could read the hate in his eyes. But there was also a plea….the Roman general Octavius would never be able to escape those eyes and the guilt they thrust upon him.

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Later that evening, the general Octavius sat and watched the sunset through the window in his quarters, and felt the wind blow through the curtainless window. The glass covering which had been in place had been destroyed in one of the cowboy's frequent raids, and had yet to be replaced. The wolves howled in the distance as the moon rose, and the erie hoot of an owl echoed through the night air. He jumped at the sudden notes from the trumpets sounding the first watch of the evening, and watched in the dwindling light as the figures of armored men marched through and settled into their respected positions.

The war had been raging on for what seemed like years, though it was only a fifteen month period where there was actually armed conflict. It all started innocently enough; the Romans finding and exploring a new chunk of land they'd found when the natives had ambushed a small band of scouts while on a recon mission. Only one returned alive, though badly wounded. The soldier had recounted his experience, and in outrage the legions of Rome had declared war on the new found enemy. Though before it started, Octavius had arranged a meeting with the enemy's leader, and when trying to negotiate, was treated in a cold, inhospitable manner, and thoroughly insulted. With no other choice but to go to war with the strange people, the cowboys, they called themselves, Octavius and his men had built a mighty fortification, and were locked in almost constant combat in their will to protect themselves from the hostile defenders. But it was not easy.

The cowboys had much better weaponry, which made loud noises and could penetrate through even the toughest armor with a very small piece of metal, and had left many men dead or horribly wounded. There was also another weapon, which practically decimated the lines of men and made their traditional tactics unsuccessful. It was in the shape of medium sized red sticks, and when exposed to fire, it exploded with enough impact to crush through their walls and throw men backwards. Not to mention there was also many strange illnesses the Romans had never encountered before, and many were in the sick bay from either wounds or untreatable illness.

As he thought about the day's events and fretted over a new sickness that was sweeping through the camp, his gaze passing along the various buildings and areas of the heavily guarded facility, watching as the last few straggling soldiers made their way to their own sleeping quarters. Then, almost without realizing it, he found himself looking at the prison block, and felt the strange urge to walk to it, to enter its dark halls and once again face the leader of his enemies. Why in the name of Light he wanted to was a mystery, but there was something about that man, something very intriguing, and the guilt of his mistreatment from earlier was building heavily upon Octavius' shoulders. With a sigh, he pinched out the small flame in the lamp that stood nearby, and went to bed. He had nightmares about those eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, the sun rose to the sound of the trumpets, and with it the men of the fort as well. The dawn light filtered into the rooms of the barracks, and slowly, like a small trickle, the soldiers began to leave their sleeping quarters, clad in their armor or whatever they would be wearing for the day's routines, and marched out in orderly file onto the parade ground, awaiting the usual morning inspection from their general. Though wide awake and ready to take on whatever events the day had to throw at them, there was a feeling of anxiety and slight nervousness in them all, for they had heard tell of a band of the cowboys heading their way, which was never a good thing.

Jogging slightly, since he was running a little late, the General Octavius finally paused before the rows of men, and smiled apologetically. He had forgotten about the prisoner. "Well," He said, standing up straight and gazing at his men. "I hope you will forgive me, the morning was too quiet, and I missed the waking hour."

A small chuckle ran through the line, and the soldiers began to lighten up, their worry ebbing away as they listened to the friendly voice of their general. He was best known for being kind, and also very caring; treating each man as if he were a brother, and always assuring their safety and well being. One of his most famous, if not most notorious examples, was when the food supply came in from the city, and they were given stale bread and mice filled bundles of wheat. Apparently the guys in charge had forgotten to inspect the crop. Well, the general had had quite a harsh talk with the senators back in the city, and now they all received better grade food, and even a little extra for special occasions, such as fruits. There was also the fact he always fought at the front of the line, and would personally lead them into battle, sword drawn and on foot, refusing the horse that was always offered to him. And his reassurance was always good to have when times of hardship such as these befell the men of the fort.

Walking down the lines of men and addressing them each by name, which he made a point to do, and exchanging a goodmorning with them, he was suddenly stopped by a hoarse cough that sounded behind him. He turned to see Libanius, one of the soldiers, coughing into the fold of his arm as the general walked past. Octavius stopped.

"Libanius," He said, stopping before him. The soldier stiffened, and stood as straight as he could, stumbling slightly backwards in the process. "Are you ill?"

"N-No *cough, cough* Sir," Replied the soldier.

Octavius sighed. "Oh Libanius. If you are feeling under the weather, do take the day off and visit the Medic."

"I do not need to, Sir, I am quite fi-" Libanius broke off into a fit of coughing, and the men around him took a few steps back, fearing it could be one of the contagious illnesses that were running rampant in the camp.

With another sigh and shaking his head, Octavius gestured for Libanius to follow, and he followed his general across the court to the stone made sickbay, and waited at the threshold as Octavius went in to seek out the Medic.

"Lucius, are you here?" He asked, gazing into the dimmed light. He could hear the coughing and the small, quiet voiced greetings of the men who had fallen sick or injured in the safety of the building. He always replied back to them by name, as was his custom. He turned at the sound of scuffling feet and saw the Medic enter the room from one of the small branching hallways that connected the three roomed building. His hands were full, and his white tunic stained with red and different colored herb juices, and his eyes were bloodshot and tired, with heavy bags ringing the bottoms.

"I am here," He said, stifling a yawn. He set down the large basket of supplies he had been carrying, and began sorting through the various jars of strange, pulpy salves and white linen bandages. "What is it you need?" His voice was hinted with a sigh, not of annoyance, but of exhaustion.

"I do believe we have another one down with fever," Octavius began. He then gestured for Libanius to enter, at which he did, coughing with each step.

Lucius frowned. He ordered the soldier to sit down on one of the empty cots, and went about questioning him on how he felt. He then ended the examination with touching his wrist to the soldier's forehead, and making a disapproving clicking noise while shaking his head.

"Yep," He said, shaking his head and sighing. "He is down with the fever."

Octavius as well sighed, and came to stand beside the soldier, who had a very nervous look on his face, and patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. "It will be alright, Libanius. You will be okay."

"He is right," Lucius said, turning back to his basket of supplies. "There have been very few losses to this illness." Then, with a slightly dark tone, Lucius turned to look at them. "You are lucky. You will not be blown to bits by the cowboy's bombs."

To a normal person those words would seem dark, but to Octavius and the rest of the men of the fort it was normal. Lucius, though a good man, had a rather volatile temper, which was sprung from lack of sleep and immense stress. Both of these taking their toll on him now. But at least he had skill and what he did, and most men who sought his help lived. Though it could sometimes be a little scary when under his care, only because of his sternness and strict manner. But he was a trustworthy man, who though he didn't show it, cared deeply for the wellbeing of the men under his care, like any good Medic should. He just had a rough way of saying.

"Lay there and stay there," Lucius said, not even turning to face Libanius, who slipped out of his armor and lay with a sigh on the bed.

"Do not worry, Libanius," Octavius said gently, smiling down at the soldier. "You are in good care, and I promise you nothing exciting will happen while you are out."

"Thank you, Sir." Libanius whispered, saluting feebly, as he was growing drowsy due to the faintness of the light in the room.

With a small nod and smile, Octavius turned and headed for the door, casting a farewell to Lucius, who replied with a shrug and sigh, and back out into the light of the sun. Then, there was the sound of yelling from the prisoner's quarters, and with a frown and quickening step, Octavius hurried to investigate, one again remembering the man with the eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

The sounds of the clash grew nearer as the general hurried to the prison block, hearing the struggling shouts of men as they engaged in some sort of fierce battle, which at the moment could only be heard, as he was not yet to the complex. Turning the corner, he was met with a vicious fight scene, his men and and three cowboy prisoners, their leader included, grappling before the entrance of the door. Quickly, hoping to prevent any unnecessary injuries, Octavius ran into the midst of the little battle, trying to help his men subdue the prisoners as they made their desperate attempt at freedom.

It was a nasty skirmish; the men from both sides being badly beaten by each other as they fought, with no cares whatsoever of how badly they harmed their opponent. Yelling at them in the hopes that they would stop was futile, Octavius knew, so he did the next best thing; fight beside his men and try to subdue the enemy. One of the cowboys, a rather tall man with a scraggly beard and pale eyes of rage, was the first to notice the general in the havoc, and leapt at him with such strength it startled Octavius, who side-stepped quickly to avoid being rammed into, and whirled around on his heels, only to find that one of his men was taking the brunt of the blow. Moving to help him, he failed to notice the flash of blond that whisked past, and was suddenly struck in the stomach by a sharply jabbing fist.

He doubled over for a moment, staggering slightly as he tried to regain the wind that had been knocked out of him. He straightened with great effort, and caught only a glimpse of the blond figure before a fist flew at his face, catching him on the side of the chin. He glanced around like a startled animal, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth as the blow had caused him to bite his tongue. This time, as the fist swung, he managed to duck, and swerved around behind his attacker, landing a sharp blow of his own behind the man's neck, which caused him to crumple suddenly to the ground, since that was where an easily exposed pressure point lay, and stood above him, panting as he caught his breath. He didn't have time to as the man leapt to his feet, and Octavius had to jump back quickly to avoid another strike from the man's fists.

The man got to his feet, and faced his adversary angrily. Octavius could easily distinguish the hate in his fiery blue eyes, and suddenly felt strangely afraid, as he had never seen so much hate and anger in one's eyes until now. Suddenly the cowboy lunged forwards, and the general quickly tried to get out of the way, but failed horribly, and was sent flying backwards into the wall of the building, banging his head rather hard against its stony surface. He slowly and painfully lifted his head, and saw through his blurred vision the face of the cowboy, who had in his hands a large brick, which he had probably found lying nearby, and watched him, his eyes blaring loudly his hatred for the Roman, as he raised the brick above him, preparing to slam it down….

Just in time one of the men had seen, and he and the other two, whose own combatants had been beaten and were back in their quarters, came and subdued the cowboy from either side, so he was unable to fight, let alone move, and he struggled with as much fury as he'd had at the beginning of the battle, but was quickly beaten after a sharp kick to the stomach, which left him on his knees gasping for breath. It was over.

Beside him, Octavius heard a voice, and felt himself being dragged to his feet, and carefully propped against the side of the building, his Senior Centurion beside him as he staggered slightly, the blurriness refusing to leave his eyes. The blood pulsed in his ears, and the dizziness caused him to feel weak and lightheaded, and there was something wet and warm running down his forehead. A small gasp from the Centurion proved how badly he'd suffered the blow.

"Sir!" Marcus said, catching him before he stumbled into a nearby pile of stone, which was being used for construction, and was probably where the cowboy had gotten the brick.

"I-I am f-fine, Centurion Marcus. I am only sh-shaken…." Octavius stammered, blinking the foggy sense of dizziness from his eyes.

"No, you are not at all fine, Sir. You have hit your head very badly, and it is in my mind that you should see Lucius."

"No. I-I must face the prisoners and see they are safely back in their cells." Octavius argued, pushing the Centurion away. He turned slowly to stare down at the blond cowboy, watching without even the slightest bit of hate, which was surprising to him, since he had been so badly beat by the man. But he held him to nothing. The general was convinced the reason he had lost the battle was because he was taken by surprise, and under any other circumstances he would have won. But there was a small part of him that knew it was not just the shock of the strike that led to his defeat. Either way, he must have answers.

"Sir," Marcus said again, taking a step forwards but halting when Octavius raised his hand to silence him.

"Accius, Kaius, take him back to his cell. I shall be there to speak face to face in an hours' time."

With a nod, the two led the cowboy, who had ceased his struggling now as he was exhausted, back to his quarters. "And keep a guard on him,"

"Yes, Sir."

With a tired sigh, Octavius turned back to MArcus, and they locked eyes for a moment. The general could read the worry in the Centurion's eyes, and to smile reassuringly at his long time friend.

"Marcus," He said. The Centurion straightened. "Will you accompany me to Lucius?"

"Of course, Octavius." Then, Marcus paused, and shook his head apologetically. "Sir. Sorry, Sir."

"Marcus, in the name of Light you do not have to be so polite and proper? I do not care about militorical positions right now."

Marcus nodded, not saying anything, and walked beside Octavius as they headed for the hospital tent. There was a history, between the Centurion and the general, which began with a warm summer day in a small, decorative room with an old Greek tutor and a new boy in the small class. Both coming from wealthy families, they both attended the same little neighborhood school down by the bend of the river on the bottom of the third hill on the horizon. Marcus had been new to the area, his mother had sent him to live with his uncle, who was a Senator, and had been forced to attend the small class. His original, maternal family had not been rich, with his father away serving with the Eagles and his mother the owner of a small little bakery that was huddled between two massive, old government buildings that had long since fallen out of use.

He had been new to the class, and was shy and afraid of the other children, as most of them were very mean and snobby. But there was one who was unlike the other, who sat quietly by himself, studying the contents of a scroll in the corner by the large bay window that had made up almost half of one of the walls. This young boy, Octavius, had noticed the new kid and felt bad, since he knew how it felt to be downsized by the other children. And pretty soon, they became very close. Together they rose through school, rose through the ranks, and finally left their separate ways when they were drafted into different legions. Years later, they had met once again when Octavius was given command of three cohorts from the Eighth legion, and the new general had made his old friend his Senior Centurion, second in command and successor in the ranks. When in the field, they referred to each other as "Sir" And "Centurion," as military rank respect demanded, but at any other time they ignored their ranks and were equals.

"Octavius," Marcus said as they walked on, supporting his dizzy friend when he stumbled again. "Why did you not fight back?"

"I was taken by surprise, Marcus," Octavius replied, walking on. He left it at that, and they went the rest of the way in silence.

When they reached the hospital block Lucius was outraged. "Why," He ranted, pacing the room and tossing his hands about angrily. "In the name of Light is our general suddenly as clumsy as a day old fledgling!?"

Sitting silently on the cot as the Medic went about bandaging his head, Octavius was paying little attention to his ranting as Lucius raged on about leadership and wounds and pathetic fighting skills. He was too busy thinking about the coming meeting between the cowboy leader and himself. He did not know what he was to say; ask why he had attempted to break for freedom? That answer was obvious. Why had he attacked him? That also had an obvious answer. And what would the man say? Yell at him? Criticize him? Hurl insult after insult at him as he sat with a throbbing head against the wall opposite him as the guard stood just outside to watch over the situation? And why did he wish to speak to him in the first place?

The answers to the last few questions Octavius had to admit he did not know. It would make sense to just leave the problem be, it was not the first time a general had been severely beaten in a fist to fist brawl. But why did he care so much? Perhaps it was pride, or the will to protect his dignity and prove that though he had been beat he was not yet vanquished. Or maybe, just maybe, it was kindness. But he had no time to think on it as Lucius had finished his mending. And it was now time to meet the prisoner face to face.


	4. Chapter 4

With the accompaniment of Marcus beside him, Octavius slowly made his way down to the prisoner's barracks, careful not to stumble into anything on the way, as he was still very dizzy. The sun was blazing above them, casting long shadows about as men moved to and fro, continuing with their daily lives in the hustle and bustle of the camp. It was a lovely day, actually, with the sun at just the right angle to light up the distant horizon, and just enough clouds to allow for shade without blocking out the light. And, the applicable weather made the jobs of the centuries on watch duty easier.

But Octavius could enjoy none of these things. He was too busy thinking, and trying to keep on his feet long enough to reach his destination. He was dreading the meeting. Why, he could not say. Perhaps it was the thought of being beaten again, though that fear was extremely unfounded for there were many men keeping guard around the area. Was it because of the guilt? It was true he indeed felt guilty about keeping the man locked up- he felt guilty about keeping any man locked up but it was necessary to keep the empire safe. Or was it the fear of seeing the eyes and their hate….

Still lost in thought, Octavius entered the building through the main, heavily guarded entrance, and followed Marcus through the narrow hall. On either side, the bared cells of prisoners stood, and there was much commotion as they passed. A few men spat in their direction, while others flung curses and words that the Roman's didn't know, but knew enough to conclude they were insults. A few even threw things at them; a hat, a tin cup, a piece of bread, none of which hit their mark but clearly displayed their disgust. And then, they reached the cell at the end.

It was less of a cell, and more of a small room, with a door separating it from the hallway. There was a guard standing on the outside, who looked rather bored, but kept his constant vigil as he knew how dangerous the prisoner behind the door was.

"Good afternoon, Claudius," Octavius said, nodding to the century.

The century snapped into a salute, and returned the greeting. "A wonderful afternoon, Sir, though not as thoroughly enjoyed within these walls, Sir." Then, noticing the general's bandaged head, commented in a startled tone. "In the name of Light Sir! What has happened?"

"I was involved in a little skirmish, Clausius. It is nothing to worry about. Now. I should like to request entrance to the cowboy leader's quarters." Octavius replied.

The guard hesitated, and then stepped aside, spear in hand and ready in case the prisoner tried to make a run for it. Cautiously, but with as much pride as he could muster as to not show weakness, Octavius slowly opened the door, and stepped into the dimmed room. He was closely followed by Marcus, who held guard over the exit. At first, there was no sign of the man, and even the small tray of food that sat on the little wooden table was untouched, as was the water. The silver lamp mount, which had been removed of its lamp for fear of it being used in an escape attempt, reflected what little light drifted through the one small curtained window that hung against the back wall, whose curtains were drawn tightly shut.

For a moment Octavius felt a small sense of dread at the emptiness of the room, but stood his ground under slightly shaky feet. He heard a muffled cough from behind the narrow cot which provided bedding with its one thin blanket, and waited patiently for the man he was expecting. He knew it would never be admitted by the man, but there was undoubtedly fear in him at that point. It was easy to tell. And when the quick flash of light blue peered over the edge of the cot for a split second, the thought was confirmed. He was indeed afraid.

"Marcus," Octavius said, turning to face his loyal second in command. "Will you please wait outside?"

For a moment Marcus hesitated, glancing from his general to the cot which hid the prisoner and then back to the general. Then he nodded once, saluted, and stepped out, lightly closing the door behind him, but keeping his hand clenched on the knob, ready to burst in at the first sign of danger.

With the room once again empty save the Roman and the prisoner, Octavius very casually sat down on a small wooden chest that was set against the wall nearest the door, and waited. After some time, he saw the shining eyes again, this time peering cautiously from around the cot, and not receding after a second's view. They made eye contact for a moment, and then the eyes vanished. They were gone again for some time, until suddenly there was a scuffling of feet on the floor, and the next thing Octavius knew, the man was sitting on the far side of the cot, watching his every move.

The two remained staring at each other, both trying to read the other's thoughts and motives. As time ticked by, Octavius realized just how strange it probably was for him to be there. Normally a general wouldn't even bother to speak to a prisoner. And it must be especially confusing that he was alone and without protection. After a few more moments, the man spoke, keeping his eyes glued to the Roman.

"Why are you here?" He asked, his voice dead level and betraying nothing. And though his eyes were veiled and guarded, slight fear could still be seen in their depths.

"This is my camp, is it not? I have every right to be here, there, and anywhere within its walls." Replied Octavius, just as guarded.

Silence fell again, and then was broken by the man. "Why did you come alone?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It just seems strange 'ta me, leavin' yerself unguarded to an attack."

"You would not have come out of hiding had there been more of us, would you have?" Octavius asked, leaning tiredly against the wall.

The other was silent, and then spoke. "Nah, I wouldn't have. But why would ya trust that I wouldn't jus' attack ya as soon as yer guards were out the door?"

"Because you not yet have,"

The man was quiet, and then nodded slightly, before shaking his head as though in shame. "Ah, stupid me, sittin' here while my biggest enemy's defenseless in front'a me." Then, more to himself than Octavius. "No wonder I'm trapped here."

"Is….there anything you need?" Octavius asked suddenly.

The question seemingly startled the man, and he glanced up quickly, surprised at the sudden, unexpected kindness. He opened his mouth to answer then, stopping to think, thought better of it and shook his head. Why should he seek help from this darned Roman who had nothing but war and carnage to offer?

"Why'dya care?" He asked, his voice cold and icy like it had been when they first met the day before.

"Because," Octavius said without hesitation. "I know being a...prisoner, is not exactly an easy...or good, thing. I thought that maybe perhaps there was something I could give you to make things a little better for you until you...er, leave."

"I don't want nothin' ya have 'ta offer." Replied the man. The next thing Octavius knew, the prisoner had his back to him, and was staring down at the floor. And though it was unspoken, it was easy to tell that this conversation was over.


	5. Chapter 5

That evening, while sitting in his own quarters and staring out the window, Octavius went over the confrontation in his head. There had been fear in the man's eyes, which meant there was a chance of being able to break through to him. But there was also still hatred, which wouldn't be as easily overcome. Another good sign was that he hadn't attacked Octavius, even though he had a clear chance to. But there was something else that troubled him so. The man had been coughing. Could it be another outbreak….?

But before he could think more on the topic, there was a loud explosion from the east side of the fortress, and then a flurry of feet and yelling. Octavius quickly rose to his feet, just as Marcus burst in, breathless and forgetting the proper salute. But that didn't matter much anyways.

"Sir!" Marcus said breathlessly, panting and slightly leaning against the doorframe. "Attack on the eastern wall Sir!"

"Find Tribune Placidus and tell him to alert the trumpeters. They are to sound _Forma-Ad signa_. I will gather the men closest men to the breached area and we will hold them back until backup is ready.""

"Yes Sir!"

Quickly, Octavius buckled his helmet and swung on his cape, gathering up his sword and rushing toward the eastern rampart. Up ahead, he could see smoke rising from the wall, and heard the screams and shouted orders from the soldiers as they prepared for the next attack. Looking at the carnage he could tell it was an artillery strike from the cowboy's exploding sticks, and ran forwards to inspect the destruction.

"S-Sir…" Came a weak voice suddenly.

Octavius looked down to see one of the soldiers on the ground, his almond colored eyes glazed and scared. The general crouched down beside him, and looked over the damage. There was a deep gash in his right arm from a piece of debris, and his left leg was terribly mangled below the knee, causing Octavius to cringe. He had been right in the blast radius.

"All is okay, Quintus. We will get you out of here in no time." Octavius said reassuringly. Then, off to his left, he saw two men running towards them, and made an urgent gesture for help. "Severus, Caius, take him to Lucius. When you have done that, round up as many men as you can and get the wounded to safety."

"And...the dead, Sir?" Caius asked.

Octavius stiffened. "There are dead?"

"Yes, Sir." Severus said solemnly, bowing his head.

Octavius let out a sorrowful sigh, and rubbed his face tiredly. There was nothing he hated more than losing good men. "Move them out of they way. We shall hold a formal burial ceremony when this is through."

"Yes Sir."

Watching as the two men carried the third between them, Octavius turned and ran up the rampart steps to the path overlooking the other side of the wall. Here and there men were helping each other up, those injured who could walk making their way to the hospital bay, those unable to were carried off by their comrades on stretchers. Upon closer inspection the damage was worse than he had originally thought, and the severity of the situation was worrying. A large gaping hole had been blown in the side of the stone wall, and rubble had been tossed up everywhere. The dust had settled now, and it had also become clear that a few of the barrack buildings that were near the wall had been destroyed. Luckily, Octavius thought to himself, no one was off duty yet.

"Sir," Came Marcus' voice at his shoulder. Octavius turned and nodded for him to continue. I only brought half the legion, Sir. I left the others to defend the main and back entrances, Sir."

"Good." Octavius replied, crossing his arms and staring out across the field of golden grass that seemed to glow in the light of the setting sun. He then yelled up to one of the men higher up in the signal tower. "Are there any sign of them?"

"No, Sir!" Was the shouted reply. "Whoever lit the explosives have left Sir. We think it was two of the enemy, Sir. We have seen no other signs of invasion, Sir."

"Okay. Marcus, have the men on high alert. No, wait, they need rest. Okay. Divide up the men into groups and assign watch times. We shall change watch every hour. Do not assign men who are wounded or down with the fever."

"Yes Sir!" And Marcus was off.

Octavius sighed quietly, and stood for a while longer staring out at the expanse below him. As he sat there, watching the wind roll the grass like waves, he wondered if perhaps the attack had been an attempt to free the cowboy's leader. It seemed likely, as they had shown they were eager to get their men back. Octavius would have been willing to do a prisoner swap, but none of the Romans who had been captured or missing in action had been seen or heard from. And when cowboy prisoners were questioned, they said they had answered to the law and received their just punishments. But it was very angering.

Later that evening, with the third watch of the night sounding, Octavius found himself wandering towards the prison block, tiredness and weariness in his steps as he walked forwards. He didn't know why he was going there, just that his feet were leading him forwards, and decided not to fight it, and just go with it. He walked through the entrance, nodding to the guards as he passed, oblivious to their questioning gazes. He stopped before the door to the very last cell in the back, and after exchanging a low voiced command with the century, slowly pushed open the door, stepping in and closing it behind him.

As it was last time, the room was dark and silent, and the curtains were still drawn tightly over the window, not that there was enough sunlight to light the room anyways. He saw the prisoner sitting on the cot, staring at him with curious, though as usual very guarded eyes. Wearily, Octavius once again sat on the small chest, and sighed quietly as he sat staring at the floor. There was an awkward silence, and then he spoke.

"I...hope I am not bothering you," He said, glancing up for a moment to stare at the man.

The man shook his head, and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, and his hat almost covering his eyes. "Not like there's anythin' 'ta interrupt me from." He said cooly.

There was silence again, and Octavius cleared his throat before speaking again. "You are wondering what the commotion was?" He asked, waiting patiently for a reply.

The man chuckled slightly, in a mirthless tone, and shook his head. "My rescue party, no doubt. Though I'm sue they didn't make it through, now did they?"

"No, they did not. It was only two men with an explosion. They got away."

The man sighed. "Didn't 'spect them 'ta make it through anyhow."

"Um, may I ask you a question?" Octavius asked suddenly, startling the cowboy.

"I...'spose so..." The cowboy replied, glancing up at him quickly.

"Men- good men -have gone missing in action. They have not been found. Not even dead, and have not been seen or heard from. Every time I offer a prisoner exchange to your people they always decline. Why? And where are our soldiers?"

For a moment the man hesitated, and Octavius could see the fear in his eyes as he tried to figure out what to say.

"Um, well, you see…" The man began, gulping slightly. What was he so afraid of? "W-We have a…a...a law system an'...well, they had 'ta pay fer their crimes an'...war is, it's a pretty major crime an' well...they were all...well...sentenced 'ta...well...in a, a way ya might better understand it-"

"No." Octavius said, shaking his head in a tired, weary manor. "I understand already."

Silence immediately followed, and Octavius thought he could see a faint glimmer of shame, and even regret, in the eyes of the man who sat opposite him.

"I...I don't like it, that form'a punishment. 'Specially since they didn't even get a fair trial." There was a moment's pause before the man continued. "But I ain't got jurisdiction in terms'a punishment. 'Sall up 'ta the government. I'm just the guy in charge of the men. I'm...I'm honestly really...really...sorry."

That was it. He'd done it. The general Octavius had broken through to the prisoner. "It is alright. I cannot blame you for what your empire does. I understand, the being next to powerless when it comes to one's people. I, for one, am unable to provide everything my men need. If they need something, I must consult the Senate before we get it. It is a tough life, for us leaders."

"Yeah. It is."

Another bout of silence fell, and then Octavius stood and yawned, rubbing his head as it was rather irritating, and turned again to the man. "I am afraid I must leave now…"

"Huh? Oh, of course uh, yeah. Umm, thanks I...guess fer...fer the company, I 'spose."

"You are...um, quite welcome. Is...is there anything you need?" Backing towards the door.

"No. I'm fine. Safe night, I guess." The man said, smiling apologetically.

"Thank you. And may yours be just as safe." With a nod of goodbye Octavius opened the door and went to leave, then stopped, and turned back to the man. "If you need anything, just ask the guard for Octavius, and I shall provide what I can."

"Thanks."

And with that, Octavius turned, and left for his own room, longing for a long night of rest, and wondering for the first time the name of the man in which he had captured.


	6. Chapter 6

Later that night, while the cold air lingered over the camp like a frozen spirit, the horns once again sounded for the fourth and final watch of the evening. On a normal night Octavius could easily sleep through the routine change of watchmen, but this night, though he had been so tired just a few hours earlier, he found himself restless and wide awake. Funny, he thought to himself, staring through the darkness out the window in his usual spot which he so loved to sit in, how one can be so tired, and yet so stirred inside.

With a soft sigh he shifted slightly, and continued staring out over the parade ground, quietly sorting through his thoughts. It had been an eventful day for everyone in the camp; Quintus, the soldier who Octavius had found wounded after the initial blast, was currently in the hospital fighting for his life with at least seven other men, and at least a dozen others were also wounded, though not as bad as Quintus and the others. There had also been a total of three casualties as of now, which had put Octavius into a depressed, down mood, and he had written the letters to their families himself, hoping they knew just how deeply he felt for them and their lost relative. And just to add insult to injury, five new cases of the mysterious fever had arisen, and the hospital block was filling up faster than Lucius could handle, which left the Medic in quite a foul mood.

There were also things from his previous conversation with the cowboy prisoner that ruthlessly plagued his mind. One was the answer to the question he had been wondering over since the war began, about the fate of the men who had been captured. Now that he knew their fate, he wasn't sure if he was lighthearted and relieved to be free of the wondering and worrying, or if he was angry and upset about what had befallen them. But as much as he longed, there was nothing he could do for them. He had spoken to their leader, and found that he had no power to stop it. Which brought to his mind another thought; the prisoner himself. He had seemed ashamed...regretful, even, about the punishment which the Roman soldiers received, but it was hard to tell if he was sincerely sorry, or just faking it. Why he would fake it Octavius didn't know, it made no sense. But he was slightly surprised to find that he was being truthful about his position.

And there was another thought, still, in the Roman's head that he could not shake. He knew now what happened to his men when they were captured, but what happened to the prisoners he captured? They were treated as well as a Roman general could pull off, and Octavius made sure they had the necessities of food and water, medical care if it was necessary and blankets if it was cold, but what happened to them when the men from the Senate came and took them away? He'd thought of the question numerous times, but never asked, as it was not his place. But it made him wonder; did the government he served have the same law? And if they did, was he sending men to their deaths?

He shook his head, not wanting to think on that topic anymore. There had been enough death the past few days. And why did it matter to him, anyways, what happened to the men he captured and sent away? He was a general. A Roman. Much higher than the barbarians he fought, and surely more important. But as he thought about it, he couldn't recall ever feeling higher than any man, whether they were a soldier who followed commands, or a lowly servant which was looked down upon by all. He was a human like everyone else, so why should he be treated differently? Why should their enemies be treated so harshly? He knew they were in war and all, but there must be a way to end the struggle without so much loss! But as his mind drifted back to the topic of the treatment of prisoners, he once again began thinking of the ones who were sent away…..

He suddenly found himself racing to the main office quarters where himself and his officers held their meetings and where they kept the important documents like the marching schedule and the pay roll. He raced past the man on guard duty, startling him slightly, and stopped before his desk, looking urgently through the pile of scrolls and loose strands of papyrus. He was normally very organized, but due to the stress and the demand to be out on the field with his men, his organization had fallen to distress, and it took him many minutes to find what he was looking for. He picked up a stack of clay tablets which had been sealed with the Senate's signet, and pried off the wax that sealed the binding around it, and quickly sorted through the multiple tablets in the pile. He finally found the one he was looking for, and moving closer to the oil lamp that hung over the desk, studied it in the dim light.

The writing was, not surprisingly, very fluent and contemptuous, which made sense for it was an official document, and he read it carefully through the fluttering shadows cast over it by the lamp. He read through it, and found the specific column of writing he was seeking.

_We the Senate of Rome officially declare this document be sent out to General Octavius G. Caesar of Rome….._

Okay….not that column. He scanned the next and found what he needed to know.

_We have need to inform you that the next bout of prisoners of war are to be sent up on the 15th of this month, via cavalry accompaniment, and are to be rendezvoused at the bridge over the Tiber at exactly noon on that day….._

Noon. On the 15th of that month. Octavius looked up from the tablet and stared out in front of him at nothing in particular. That meant he had exactly eleven days. Eleven. And only eleven.

Almost without thinking, he sat down at the desk, brushed everything aside, and grabbed up a clean sheet of papyrus, pressing his stylus to the paper and writing as fast as he could. He was a man on a mission. But for what cause he did not know. As he scribbled the words down faster, he suddenly paused, thinking for a moment. What was he doing? He looked down at the paper and read what he'd written.

_To the Consuls and the Senate, from the General Octavius stationed on the Eastern Front, _

_I wish to ask what happens to the prisoners myself and the other generals send. I am curious to see just how great their punishment is, because I feel they must be punished fiercely and without mercy. The prisoners here are worth nothing; not even a broken sandal strap. To effectively rid Rome of such pests, I propose a hideous form of punishment. That is my only complaint. _

Putting the stylus down, he read over the document and smiled, hoping his plan would work. He rolled up the paper and sealed it shut, then left the room and went to find the messenger who had rode in earlier that day, before the attack. He caught the man right while he was mounting his steed, and handed him the paper with an urgent request that it be sent at the utmost speed. As the man galloped away, Octavius walked cheerily back to his quarters, happy to be doing something to help the current predicament.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, with the trumpet sounding the usual waking notes, the Centurion Marcus stood outside the door to his general's room, and knocked gently on the door in the way he always did, waiting for the reply that meant he was allowed to enter. He waited for a moment, but was slightly concerned when no reply met his ears. Surely Octavius hadn't left already. He always waited for Marcus to arrive before heading out on his rounds. Was something wrong? Was he perhaps ill and unable to answer the door?

Unable to wonder any longer Marcus pushed open the door, and found the room empty. Where was the general….?

"Centurion Marcus," Came a voice from behind him suddenly, startling the centurion.

He whirled around to see Octavius coming up to him, a cheery grin on his face as he met the centurion half way up the path. "Sir, where have you been?" Marcus asked, forgetting the formal salute. Not that Octavius cared.

"Walking the camp, Centurion. Will you not accompany me to the mess hall this morning? There is business that must be discussed with you."

For a moment Marcus hesitated. He was use to seeing Octavius in a good mood, he always tried to be when there was no trouble about, but surely at a time like this a good mood would be hard to muster. But, he had been given an order, and followed quickly, entering the long hall which served as the eating quarters for the entire legion. Normally, the general and his officers ate in their own little hall, but occasionally, especially with a general who did not see himself as higher than his men, they would dine simply at one of the small tables amongst all the other soldiers.

Octavius led his friend and Centurion to one of the unoccupied tables near the back, and exchanged greetings with the men they ran into, taking his seat across from marcus, who looked a little confused, but waited obediently for his general to speak.

"You are wondering why I have brought you here, are you not?" Octavius asked, speaking to Marcus as he nodded to one of the nearby cooks who held up a platter of fruit and cheese.

"Yes, I was, Sir. Is...there trouble, Sir?" Marcus asked, pausing when the cook put the food before them.

"Eat," Octavius said, nodding to the bread that was also placed before them. "It will look less suspicious."

Still feeling very confused, Marcus took a bite out of a chunk of bread, and was mildly startled to see his general had brought with him a small pouch, and was discretely filling it with a bit of fruit, a small chunk of cheese, and a slice of bread taken from the loaf before him. He then spoke.

"Marcus, I cannot lie to you. There is a reason for this, though I fear it may not satisfy your interest."

Marcus quickly shook his head, swallowing the mouthful of bread before speaking. "No, Sir. Anything you are up to is bound to have an important reason, Sir."

Octavius smirked slightly, and leaned forwards. "You do not have to say 'Sir' under these circumstances, Marcus. It takes what needs to be said longer to come out."

"Yes Si- I mean, you are right, Octavius."

"Now. I have been wondering, as I believe you have, about what happens to the prisoners we send away, have you not?" Octavius asked, taking a small bite from an apple slice he'd picked up.

Marcus hesitated for a moment. "Um, I have never really put much thought into it but, yeah, I suppose so. I mean, it would be something nice to know. But why would it matter, may I ask?"

"Because. They are humans too, you know, and have families to go home to."

"Yes, but what of our men?"

"That is also something I wished to speak with you about. Last night, after the attack, I went and spoke with the prisoner again. I asked him what happened to the men who get captured, our men, and he told me."

"So what happens to them?" Marcus asked, taking a sip from the cup beside him.

"They were killed, Marcus. By law, they had to be."

"What!?" Exclaimed Marcus. His outburst caused a few heads to turn in their direction, and he immediately quieted down, turning his attention back to Octavius. "I mean, why?"

"It was their law, Marcus. And the prisoner, their leader, is only the leader of the men who fight, and therefore has no control over what happens to them. So…."

"Octavius, please stop for a moment," Marcus asked, rubbing his forehead exasperatedly. He had great reverence and respect for his friend and general, but this little confusing conversation of his was just too much for one morning. "You are a highly educated, and very wise man. You are kind hearted, which is good, and one of the many things that makes you so well loved by us all. But, Octavius, I do not understand what point you are trying to reach here. You talk about prisoners of war, and what happens to them, almost as if you are from the other side. Then again, you speak of our own men who have been taken captive, and then of their fates. I beg your forgiveness, but I do not understand."

For a moment Octavius was silent, and just stared down at the food before him, his own thoughts in a jumble as he tried to piece together some plan he thought he'd had. Perhaps, he needed to wait for the details. No, if he waited too long it might be too late to act. But if he acted too soon, then everything could fall apart, and he and his men could be faced with dire consequences. He then realized Marcus was still there, and cleared his throat before speaking again.

"I...am sorry, Marcus. You are right. Perhaps I just need more time to think on it, and maybe wait for more details." He then chuckled slightly to himself, and shook his head. "I do not even know if this will work."

"If what will work?" But Marcus' question never reached the general's ears, as Octavius was already walking out the door, carrying the small pouch concealed in the fold of his cape. And for some reason, Marcus suddenly felt a little less trusting of his old friend.

Casually, as to not attract too much attention to himself, Octavius made his way back to the prison block, and exchanged the usual word of passing with the guard, before entering the back room once again, finding the man for the first time sitting near the window and staring out of the slightly cracked curtains. The prisoner turned upon Octavius' entrance, and watched him as he set the small pouch on the wooden chest.

"What's that?" The prisoner asked questioningly, slightly tensing but not fleeing or hiding.

"Food. I….thought you might be hungry." Octavius replied, stepping back.

The man hesitantly reached a shaky hand towards the pouch, then checked, and drew it quickly back, his eyes untrusting and a little fearful. "It's poisoned, ain't it?" He asked.

"If I were trying to poison you, why would I go through the trouble of giving it to you in good food rather than what you normally get?"

The reply seemed to have silenced the cowboy's suspicion, and he once again reached out to the pouch, and found the fruit and cheese, and then the bread, and his eyes seemed to light up a little, as it had been days since he'd had anything with color, even though the prison food was the best any prisoner was given. There was a small sigh from the Roman as he leaned against the wall.

"I apologize that it is not much," He said, shaking his head in disgust. "I was not able to get away with any more."

Looking from the Roman to the food, the cowboy replied; "No, no, it's...this is very kind'a you." Then, after a moment's pause, he spoke again. "Do my men have better food too?"

"I am afraid not," Octavius said, shaking his head again. "They would have it, but our food supply is running short. I have asked the Senate for an increase in rations, and got a no for a reply."

"The Senate, eh?"

"Yes," Octavius replied with a sigh, leaning even more against the crumbling wall of the cell. "The ones who rule us. My father, or, my adoptive father, tried to take control of them one…..but he failed. No one has tried since, though many have wanted to."

"We have a Senate," The prisoner said matter-of-factly, taking a bite from the bread slice he'd been given. "They ain't got full power, but serve what we call a president. He's like, an emperor in your terms. Though, I'm guessin' since your father failed ya don't got one, do ya?"

"No, we do not." Then, pausing for a moment, Octavius laughed a little, and shook his head. "Here we are, two enemies discussing politics. This is a crazy world we live in, is it not?"

"Definitely crazy." The cowboy agreed with a chuckle of laughter. Then, Octavius noticed something he'd never seen before. The man was _smiling, _actually happily smiling, and it was in all honesty rather heartwarming to see had been able to help. "But seriously," The cowboy said, cutting into the Roman's thoughts. "Why're ya doin' this? I mean, I didn't ask 'ta be treated so nicely, an' surely ya got better things 'ta do."

"Well, to be completely honest, I have been thinking, and may have a plan to perhaps get you, and your men, out of here."

"Wait, what?" The cowboy asked, starting slightly and looking up quickly. "Why….I mean, not that I don't want help, but wha…"

"I was thinking about what you said. About what happens to my men when they are captured by you. And that got me wondering about what happens to the prisoners myself and the other generals send to the Senate when the time comes to do so. I have written to them asking, though I am unsure of when or what I will get in terms of replies, but either way I wish to help you all escape."

For a moment the man was silent, just staring at the Roman with an expression disbelief. This had to be a cruel joke of some sort. "You're kidin'," He said, his tone growing colder as he set his temper to it. "You must be crazy thinkin' ya could pull that off,"

"Crazy, perhaps," Octavius said, standing straighter as to seem more convincing. "But I believe it will work."

"And why would ya even care 'ta free us?" The man asked, crossing his arms and completely ignoring the food he'd been given.

"Because. It is inhumane to keep men locked up. And I for one wish this war over, as I know you do as well."

The cowboy seemed startled by this notion, and his head shot quickly, his eyes both angry and astonished. "How do ya know that?"

"It is very obvious, if you think about it. No one really likes war, especially the leaders. Besides, you all have people to be home to. And though I cannot stop this war, I can at least aid the men unlucky enough to be caught in it." There was silence again, and then after a moment, Octavius turned, and went to leave, before turning back to the cowboy, a thoughtful look on his face. "You know me, but I do not know you. If you do not mind me asking, what am I to call you?"

"Jedediah," The cowboy said, his eyes lightening up a bit. And there was something close to trust in them. "The name's Jedediah."

The Roman smiled. "I am pleased to meet you, Jedediah. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask."

"Nice 'ta meet you too, Octavius. I will, thanks. And please," Jedediah said, attracting the other man's attention. "Don't get yerself killed doin' this."

"I will not. I do believe this is the right thing to do. If not," Octavius paused, looking above him for a moment. "Then perhaps the gods will have mercy on me." And with that, he left, leaving Jedediah to his food.


	8. Chapter 8

A few hours later, the sound of galloping hooves came from down the legionary road just as Octavius was walking back from the hospital block, and he stopped by the front gate to await the messenger who hopefully carried with him the message he so desperately needed. The auxiliary, who was on his usual messaging duty, smiled as he handed the fort's general a sealed tablet and a slip of papyrus.

"Is that all?" Octavius asked, forcing a smile on his face. He was so anxious to see what had been written, that he hadn't realized he'd been frowning.

"Yes, sir. For you, at least. I have messages for a few soldiers." The rider replied, saluting.

"Good, then. Carry on."

As soon as the man had left, Octavius stole a chance to run to the commanding office, and shut the door behind him. His heart beat faster with anticipation, his fingers fumbling to undo the seal and tie and his eyes straining to read the words that would spell life or death for so many men. The seal finally split, and he opened the two tablets, reading over each, his mind processing every word as if each were a life hanging on the edge of a sword blade.

_To the General Octavius G. Caesar of the XIII, XII, XI Legions…._

He jumped to the next paragraph. He could skip formalities.

_It has come to the attention of the Senate that you are facing the most difficult of threats along the border wall where you are stationed…_

Why was that in there? He hadn't asked about that.

…_..and we intend to send you reinforcements. _

Fantastic, he thought, annoyance flooding through him. More men is just what I need. He read on, and found what he was looking for.

_As to the matter of prisoners, we the Senate would like to know why you take men of the opposing side alive in the first place. It makes little sense, since all our other generals do not. If they continue to cause trouble, we the Senate suggest that you, the general promptly execute them at once. If you are unable to, we will gladly take them and execute them ourselves. Thank you for your concern. We also have decided to arrive for our monthly tour of your base in one week's time..._

For a moment the general's breath caught in his throat, and he dropped the tablet at his feet. In hindsight it may have been an overreaction, but the fact that he had been sending men to their deaths without knowing for so long was horrifying. After a moment's shock, he quickly gathered up the clay tablets, and ran from the room, heading across the exercise ground to the prison block. He had not expected to quite literally run into Marcus.

"Omph!" Came the sound of losing breath from Marcus as he stumbled and tripped, landing on his side while his helmet rolled off.

"Marcus!" Octavius exclaimed, quickly helping him up. It had been a misty morning, and the ground was wet and muddy, and the poor Centurion had landed right in a puddle of it. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I am fine, Sir," Marcus replied, flicking the goppy mud off his armour and cape. He bent down and picked up his helmet, hesitating to put it back on as is was dripping with mud. With a sigh he began wiping it away with the cleanest part of his cape, placing it gently back on his head before looking at Octavius. "Why the hurry, Sir?" He asked.

"I have gotten a letter from the Senate," Said Octavius, moving to reach the prisoners' quarters. Marcus followed.

"Did it answer your question, Sir?" He asked.

"Pardon?"

"The Senate, Sir?" Marcus asked, puzzled.

"Yes, yes, Centurion. I sent a letter to the Senate, and they answered my question."

"But, why-"

But before the Centurion could finish his sentence, the general opened the door to the prison block, and entered, closing it behind him as he did so. That had been close. Though a trustworthy man, Marcus was, he wasn't ready to confide in him about the roughly formulated plan he'd made. He wanted to work out the details before he told him, if he told him. The conversation over breakfast earlier that day had been quite disappointing, since the general had hoped his Centurion would understand. But apparently he didn't, so it would be a while before Octavius disclosed any information.

Wrapping his cape tightly around his shoulders against the coldness of the building he needed to have that fixed, he set his gaze on the door at the very end of the hall which was his destination. He had made it a point to ignore the men around him, for fear of losing his courage and abandoning the idea he had. Though terribly rude, he reminded himself it was for their sake and carried on. He failed to notice the studying eyes of one of the prisoners trained on the tablet he held.

"Jedediah?" Octavius whispered into the dim room as he opened the door and slipped inside. When he didn't see the cowboy prisoner, his heart began to race. Had he escaped? Was he hiding somewhere, waiting for him to step into the open before slitting his throat? Movement from the corner startled him, and he jumped before regaining his composure and standing rigid, choosing to ignore the almost overwhelming feeling of relief. He smiled a greeting.

"Can I help ya?" The cowboy asked, turning to face the Roman. His were full of confusion,and what seemed to be subtle joy.

"Indeed you can," Octavius replied, walking over to the small chest and setting the tablets down. Jedediah watched curiously.

"What's with the artifacts?" He asked, glancing up at his company.

"They are not artifacts, they are documents.

For a moment there was an amused look on the cowboy's face, and he chuckled slightly. "You know im America we use paper," He said, smiling goodnaturedly.

"Well papyrus, what we call our paper, is hard to come by one campaign. So we must settle for this." Octavius replied. " Now. Remember what I discussed with you last time, the plan I had to free you and the others?"

Jedediah nodded, but didn't speak. Secretly, he was still unsure of the sanity of the plan. He listened as the Roman read everything, word by word, written on those slabs of clay. When he had finished, the cowboy had found himself in confusion, and stared up at the Roman.

"So...my boys are killed, then?" He asked, his voice a lot softer than it normally was.

Octavius nodded forlornly, and sighed. "Both our sides are at fault in their ways of punishment. But now that we know, we can begin formulating a plan of action. I have a rough idea, but I would like to share it with you first."

The cowboy thought for a moment before nodding, eyes blazing with a ferocious courageousness matched by nothing else.

Octavius began with the plan.

"We must keep this operation a secret. We cannot afford the information we share to drift into the wrong ears." He said, sketching roughly on the wall with a piece of coal he'd taken from the brazier in his quarters.

"Can we trust your men?" Jedediah asked, staring with an intrigued yet slightly worried expression.

"Yes," Octavius replied rather coldly. He was defensive of his men's status as loyal and trustworthy. "They are trustworthy. Yours?"

"Trust is our honor. We vow it to our flag...er, standard, you would call it."

"Good. Now. I believe we should do this slowly, as to not arouse suspicion. If we can get at least five men a day out, then we should have all of them freed by the time the Senate come to inspect the camp." Octavius explained, gesturing to the marks he'd made on the wall. There were thirty five total.

"Which is in...?" Jedediah questioned.

"Seven days. They will come to inspect the camp and make sure all is in order. They will inspect the prisoners' quarters, and I will tell them you were all executed." While saying this, the Roman circled the the marks into groups of five and labeled them with the number of days.

"And, if they don't believe you?" Jedediah asked, slight concern in his voice. His eyes betrayed nothing.

Octavius was silent for a moment, praying to all the gods he knew it wouldn't come to that. "Then I will have to face the charges."

Silence settled between them, and they not succumbed to a silent sense of dread as their mind raced with lights about the possible punishment. Though the cowboy knew quite well the consequences of those punishments, he could never imagine the horror.

"We should...change the subject." Jedediah suggested, shifting uncomfortably.

"Agreed." Octavius replied grimly, his face etched with a frown. "We will need someone on the inside, preferably one of your men, to meet at a specific rendezvous point and lead them back to your camp."

"I know someone who can do that," Jedediah said, a slight smile on his face.

"Right, then." Octavius said, scribbling out the drawings on the wall. "I should be going. If there is anything you need..."

"Please," The cowboy whispered, a sincere look on his face. "You've done enough for me."

With a nod, Octavius turned, and prepared to leave the room, when Jedediah's voice once again came from within. There was a quick shuffling in the cell he was in front of but he didn't notice is.

"Yes, Jedediah?"

"May I...may I keep the light?" Jedediah asked, his eyes slightly pleading. "I-it's so dark at night..."

With a small nod Octavius once again entered the room and placed the torch in the silver holder. He could see the relief in the cowboy's eyes, and realized he really had been frightened of the dark. With a last nod goodbye he turned and left the room, leaving the prison blocks for the warmth of his own room, and some much needed sleep.

He did not see the eyes staring with malice after him.


	9. Chapter 9

"Do you trust him?"

"Huh?" Octavius asked, turning to his subordinate.

"Do you trust him to leave our camp with a horse, sir." Marcus repeated, glancing anxiously from his general to the figure on the horse near the front gate.

"I believe he can be trusted," The general said, also watching the man closely. It was true he did indeed trust the man, but only to a certain degree. He trusted he would return to the camp and give up the chance to escape for the sake of his men, but he would not trust him with, say, a weapon or anything like that. But he did refrain from using the torch for escape... "Besides," He said quickly hoping to convince himself as well as his centurion of the man's trustworthiness. "We have a small detachment of cavalry with him. If he tried to make a break for it, he will not get far."

Marcus nodded his understanding but still stood tensed, in case the prisoner attempted to flee as soon as he mounted. He watched, hand on his sword hilt, as the man mounted the beast, but surprisingly stayed where it was. He turned towards them and raised a hand in general farewell. That's when Marcus realized his general was no longer beside him, but walking towards the man. After a moment's hesitation Marcus hurriedly followed.

"Do you have enough provisions?" Octavius asked, glancing at the pack that hung fastened onto the horse's side.

"I reckin' so." Jedediah replied, patting it one last time to be sure. "My camp ain't that far."

"And, you are sure about this," Octavius asked with a hint of worry. "I know not how your people might handle you turning up with Roman soldiers."

"Relax," The cowboy replied, waving the idea away. "Soon as I 'xplain it all they'll listen."

"And, we are still in agreement? No information of our location is to be disclosed?" Asked the general urgently.

"Yup. An' ya swear ya won't attack us?"

"You have my word," Octavius promised, bowing slightly.

With a slight smile the cowboy turned forwards again, and as soon as the men of the cavalry cohort were around him, he firmly drove his heels into the horse's side, and was off.

As Octavius watched him go he couldn't help but worry. There was always the possibility he'd be betrayed. It was more than a possibility; it was the most probable outcome. It wouldn't take much for the cowboy to bolt from the group as soon as he got the chance. Then again, he there was a small part of him that believed, no matter what, he would return. Probably for his men.

"Sir," Marcus said from beside him, uncertainty in his eyes.

"Yes, Marcus?" He asked, turning to face him.

The centurion seemed a little uncomfortable under his gaze, leaving the general wondering just what he had to say.

Marcus took a breath before speaking. "Sir, about what is going on,"

"What about it?"

"Well- I would like to know." The centurion said, playing with the straps of his helmet which he held in the bend of his arm.

"It does not concern you." Octavius replied curtly, turning back to the gate and watching the figures disappear over the crest of a hill.

"But sir, I thought-"

"You thought what? That I would share everything with you?" Octavius snapped, whirling to face his centurion.

"Well, yes but-"

"But what? If it does not concern you, do not bother with it. Now hush and see to your duties." The general said, his gaze hard and his voice harsh.

"But-"

"Back to your duties, Centurion." Octavius ordered, his expression cold and angry. "And do not speak unless you have been told."

With a sigh Marcus turned away, and walked a few steps before he paused, standing straight. "I thought we were friends once," He shot over his shoulder, a sad look in his eyes. "But now I see where you stand."

The general did not reply. There was no need to. The Roman army demanded loyalty and obedience, and Marcus' place was one below his own. He did not have to answer to him. Without a word Octavius turned towards his quarters, intending to catch a few hours' rest before the day's duties began, but paused, turning towards the sound of coughing. He quickly altered his course and headed for the Medic's tent. When he reached it he paused outside the entrance, and slowly drew back the flap, careful not to let too much sunlight enter so it wouldn't burn tired, sore eyes. His gaze swept over the men lying on small cots within, and quickly walked to the other end of the tent, where Lucius stood hunched over one of the men.

"Lucius?" He asked, stopping a few paces away.

The Medic's head shot up, and he glanced behind him at his general, before stepping back. "Oh thank the gods you're here!" He said, bending down to dip the cloth he'd been holding in a bowl of warm water.

"What is going on?"

"There has been a terrible amelioration! The disease seems to have created a new symptom!" While he said this, Lucius dabbed roughly on the soldier's arm, heedless of his pained flinching.

Octavius took a step forwards to see what the Medic meant, and had to look away, fighting down his urge to retch at the sight. A blister, the size of a child's palm, protruded from the red, irritated skin on the man's arm. The general cringed.

"Tell me it is not what I think it is..." He said quietly, a great fear in his eyes.

Lucius nodded, a deep frown on his face. "It is the plague."

"Plague..." Octavius repeated, his gaze distant for a moment. The plague...the evil illness...come to strike his life again. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting down the pure emotion of the moment. Remembering the small, fleeing boy who ran from the tainted, burning streets of his village, praying that he would never come face to face with the menace again. And here it was now, taking the lives of his men.

"How many have these symptoms?"

"Well..." Lucius hesitated, then gulped. "All of them..."

Silence. And then, a fist slamming down on the side of the cot. The general stormed out, walking straight to his tent. There was nothing he could do. There was no cure for this, he knew. And he couldn't spare any supplies to find one. He'd have to act if he wanted to save his camp. He sent for a messenger, and a moment later he came in.

"Sir?" He asked, saluting smartly.

"Tell Lucius that all infected men are to be put in isolation. They are not to be touched, or bothered."

The man looked confused. "Infected, sir?"

"Just do it!"

The man quickly ran out, heading for the hospital tent. And Octavius sat and wondered what he coud possibly do next.


	10. Chapter 10

The general sat at a small table in the corner of the mess hall, looking over the list of the ones sick with the illness. There were about seventeen down with the disease, and several more showing threatening symptoms.

He had spent all day researching the records from other legions, hoping to find some sort of cure or something that could dull the burning of the sores that flecked the soldiers' skin. But, although other camps had been experiencing the same thing, as of yet, there was no cure.

He sighed as he heard footsteps approach from behind him, and slowly set the recording scrolls down. He knew who had come.

Earlier that day, he had done something he was now regretting. He had yelled at Marcus. In his defense, the Centurion had been showing insubordination, and he had gotten away with a lesser punishment than most would get. He should know to watch his mouth.

Then again, Marcus was his friend. His only friend, essentially. When he was promoted to general, they had promised not to treat each other as leader and soldier, unless they were in front of the men. Which, they had been, Octavius thought to himself. No matter how much of a good leader he tried to be, he had to show that he would not yield to such behavior.

Still, he understood the Centurion's fears. The cowboy was indeed a tricky case. Octavius knew he was not just some Western warrior, like the others. He was the leader of the men on this front. He would probably use this chance to escape. Most people would.

But then, the cowboy seemed to show honour. There was no honour in leaving his men behind while he himself was free. The general knew he would not do such a thing. But if the cowboy leader did manage to escape, he could come back with a large party of men and take them back with force….

The general glanced up as he heard someone clearing their throat.

"You summoned, _sir_?" Marcus said, putting emphasis on the last word.

Octavius winced at his tone, and nodded. "Yes, I did. Please, sit down, Marcus."

The centurion saluted stiffly, and sat down across from his general, his eyes staring at the wall above him.

"Marcus, you do not have to behave like this." Octavius said, not wishing to converse on hard terms.

"I must protest, sir." Marcus said levely, refusing to meet his gaze. "I am a professional soldier, and obey the orders of my general, General Octavius."

"Marcus, please. For the sake of our friendship please!"

Marcus was silent for a moment, before sighing and bowing his head. "Forgive me, Octavius. My actions were unjust."

"As were mine, Marcus."

They were both silent for a moment, before Octavius spoke up, waving for the attention of the mess tent's cook.

"Care for a drink?" He asked Marcus, hoping to open his friend's mind a little before he told him what he had to. "On me?"

"I suppose…." Marcus said cautiously, scratching his chin.

"Two glasses of wine, please." Octavius asked, smiling. "And you can get one for yourself, add it to what I owe you for this evening."

After the cook had left to do his general's bidding, Octavius turned back to Marcus.

"Now. I understand you had oppositions to my decision to let the cowboy leader go?"

Marcus hesitated for a moment, nodding slowly. "I did. And if I may say, I still do."

"Since we are not under the gaze of the men," Octavius began, leaning back slightly as he watched his friend. "Explain your concerns."

The Centurion took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before he spoke.

"Octavius, I know you have a good heart. That is one of the things that I like about you. You show more mercy and compassion than I think, at times, is healthy. If the Senate found out about less than half of the things you have done….there would be dire consequences. Which is why I fear letting the cowboy free like you have done." Marcus took another moment to think. "I think, Octavius, letting him go may have crossed the line."

"Oh?" Octavius asked, keen to hear what his fellow soldier thought was so terrible about his idea.

"The men know the cowboy was here. Some of them could be spies-"

"Spies?" Octavius asked, frowning. He set his wineglass down, staring across at his friend. "Spies? Amongst my men? I am afraid you are mistaken. The men of this legion are some of the best, most honourable men I have ever led. They are loyal to me. To us."

"No," Marcus protested softly, giving a small shake of his head."They follow us. They are loyal to Rome. You know how sneaky the Senate is. They will know of everything you do."

"Marcus, I highly doubt this….thought, that there are spies in this camp. What sense does it make?"

"Octavius," Marcus said, desperate for his friend to listen to him. "I fear you are blinded by your will to do good and cannot see the evil that lurks in the hearts of some. Not all people deserve your kindness. You cannot blindly place your trust in everyone."

"I am not blinded by murge to do well!" Octavius snapped, angry at such an accusation. "I just cannot stand this war! What are we fighting for anyway!? Land? Money? Do we not have enough of that!?"

"Octavius, he Senate sees this war not through our eyes. They see new, rich lands that have not yet been touched by our great Empire."

"Rome is corrupted." Octavius growled, his anger growing into a burning blaze. "The Senate is full of nothing but thieving, lying politicians, with interests aside from filling their pockets at the expense of blood! Our blood and the blood of the enemies we so heartlessly attacked in their pursuit of power!"

"Keep your voice down!" Marcus hissed, grabbing his general's tunic collar. He stared intenty at him for a moment, until he was sure he was calm again. "Octavius, myself and many others admire your goodness. But you cannot just go around shouting about the Senate. You know what they will do to you if they ever heard what you have said. And if they knew what you have done." Marcus lowered his voice even more, casting his eyes around the room. "If word of the cowboy leader's release reaches them, they will will take you. They will execute you. And torture you. Humiliate you…..take you away from me."

Octavius was silent, for he knew his friend was right. He looked at the table in frustration. How could he lead his men effectively with the Senate always looming over his shoulder?

"They do not trust me, because of my father." Octavius said, sighing deeply. "They do not understand I am not my father. I have no wish to rule Rome. It would be better if the Senate was gone, but I could not achieve such a feat."

Marcus reached across the table and gave his general a friendly shake on the shoulder. "I understand, Octavius."

"But," The general said, taking a deep, weary breath. "I believe my decision to free the cowboy was the right one. He will return, as he promised."

"And….if he does not?" Marcus asked, still on edge about freeing their enemy.

"He will." Octavius insisted. "There is something about him, that tells me I can trust him. Rely on him."

Marcus couldn't help but crack a smirk. "Do you hear yourself, Octavius?" He asked, shaking his head. "He is our enemy. There is nothing but hate for us in his heart. You must stop this hopeful nonsense and open your eyes to the real world."

Octavius went to protest, but was stopped by a deep rumble outside, and a voice screaming out into the night.

"_SOUND THE TRUMPETS! WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!"_


	11. Chapter 11

Sorry it's taken so long. I haven't been as inspired with writing lately as I usually am. HopefullyI can revive this story well enough. I have some big, surpriseplans for this story, so if you wish keep reading! :D

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The General Octavius exchanged a look of shock with his Centurion, before leaping to his feet. The men in the mess hall were already moving towards the door- many of them had been off duty and wore nothing but their tunics and had no weapons on them.

"Stop! Halt I say!" Octavius yelled at them, raising his hand to get their attention. "Do not run out there unarmed! Go not to your barracks to grab your things, there is no time! Go into the kitchen and find anything that can be used as a weapon! Form up in front of the medic tent!"

The soldiers scurried to do their General's bidding. Some found butchering knives, others broomsticks. They followed their General out of the mess hall, and out into the cool evening air.

"Marcus," Octavius said, turning to his second in command. "Take the men and guard Lucius and the ill. I will investigate the commotion at the front gate."

"Be careful, sir." Marcus whispered, his eyes worried. "It may be the cowboy leading the attack."

"If it is, then he shall not escape us again."

Through the groups of men rushing to their posts Octavius walked, calm, measured strides. He did not want to appear nervous to the men. That always brought down moral. He heard the sounds of men yelling in the night; the Centurions giving orders, Optios relaying them along the lines, archers calling out to each other to signal where they thought the enemy was.

Octavius quickly climbed the steps to the rampart, and scanned the darkening landscape. He saw nothing at first, then the faintest of specks on the horizon.

"What do you see, Priscus?" He asked the archer beside him calmly. He was a young man, one of the newer recruits and had better and younger eyes than his General.

"It appears to be about five figures, sir. All mounted." Priscus replied.

"Ours or the cowboys?" Octavius questioned, straining his eyes to see in the gathering dusk.

"Hard to say, sir."

"Keep your eyes on them, Priscus. Report to me if you pick out any changes." After speaking to the archer, Octavius turned to the Centurion in charge of them. "Centurion Aesop. Keep your men formed up along the wall. Do not fire until the challenge has been given. Make sure your men know that. I do not want unnecessary casualties this night."

"Yes, Sir."

Octavius turned away, and stared out once again at the approaching figures. There were only five of them, and the number seemed logical enough. He had sent Jedediah with a patrol of four cavalry soldiers to pick up one man. Thus, five total. But, he knew, the cowboys were crafty, clever people. They could have ambushed and killed the Romans, using their horses to appear harmless. If that was the case, the small, seemingly harmless group could be harboring deadly weapons. It had only taken two cowboys to partially blow a hole in the defensive wall and injure or kill almost ten men. If the figures in the distance turned out to be cowboys, the Roman force would be in trouble.

By the time the figures approached the main gate it was dark. No features could be seen as they approached. They appeared unhurried, and a few voices sounded below the wall from them as they chatted. When they neared the nervous sentries at the gate, they halted a few feet away.

"Give the challenge." Octavius whispered to the nearest sentry.

He nodded, and licked his lips before speaking. "Halt! Who goes there?"

"Optio Philippidis and his cavalry. I have returned with the cowboy sent with me and the one I was sent to get." Replied one of the mounted men.

"Let them in." Octavius ordered.

He stepped back as the heavy gate swung open, and in the torchlight he could see that the men were indeed who they claimed to be. So the cowboy had returned, as he said he would. At the thought of this, Octavius could not help but smile as he raised his hand in greeting.

"Jedediah! You have returned early. Has something happened?" He asked, his tone cheerier than it should have been.

"Nah," Jedediah replied, swinging himself off of his horse. "The man I was lookin' for happened to be on a trip of his own, an' we ran int'a him real quick."

As the cowboy spoke, an older gentleman in typical Western garments struggled to dismount his horse, having to be dragged off by one of the cavalry squad. He stepped up beside Jedediah, who smiled and swung an arm over his shoulders. He had a long, graying beard, and old, wise eyes with wrinkles around the sockets. He had very sparse hair, which was almost as gray as his beard.

"This is the man I was tellin' ya about. This here's my good ol' childhood tutor Wyatt Den."

"How do you do," The old man asked, nodding to the General.

"Quite well, and pleased to have friendly company." Octavius replied. "Come. You must be tired from your ride. Philippidis, have your men fed and rested. And rest yourself as well. Tell the Centurions the men can stand down now. We are returning to our regular watch routine." He then turned back to his two guests. "I have food and drink in my quarters prepared for you."

After Jedediah gave a small nod, Octavius led the two cowboys to his tent. There, they sat down, and were given bread and cheese and salted pork, as well as a cup of wine, although neither cowboy touched it, preferring their whisky which they had discreetly picked up from an old trading outpost on their way back.

They were silent for a time, the cowboys busy eating and the General trying to piece together the mess in his head. After some time sitting, he finally spoke.

"Did you run into any trouble on your trip?" He asked, setting his winecup down.

"Nah, not really. Your boys change into their disguises at the border, like ya planned. We then headed out towards Wyatt's homestead, but ran int'a him halfway there." Jedediah replied.

"Where was he heading?"

"I was on my way to visit my widowed sister, near Kansas." Wyatt explained, taking a swig of whisky. "When-"

"I am sorry," Octavius interrupted, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "I beg your forgiveness at my interruption, but what is this 'Kansas' you speak of?"

"It's one of our States….er, provinces." Jedediah explained, leaning over to whisper in the General's ear.

"Ah, I see. A province in your empire. Please, continue."

"Well….where was I….ah yes. I was on my way to visit my widowed sister in Kansas, minding my own business when I noticed your strange bunch riding down the road. They looked Western, but something about the way they treaded cautiously and looked around was suspicious to me. They weren't just any normal travelers. Anyways, when I reached them, I recognized this fella right here." Wyatt gestured to Jedediah, who gave a small nod of acknowledgement. "And the rest was his explanation."

"I see. And, you ran into no trouble, I presume?" Octavius asked, wanting to be sure.

"Nope. No trouble." Jedediah said with a smile. He was smiling, but still seemed uneasy. And this uneasiness was not lost on the General.

"Alright, then. Now, I suppose you are curious to know why we request your assistance."

"Not really." The old man replied, giving a slight shrug. "I figured it was something like you wanted to know where my fellow Westerners are planning their next attack and what not."

For a moment Octavius was about to reply with a sharp contort to the fact that this man thought he was so low that he would use such means to gain information as the old man was suggesting. Then again, he reminded himself, he was in a war, and playing a part few men dared to play.

"That is not why I need you." He replied coolly, trying to be polite. "I thought Jedediah had explained to you the plan already."

When both Western men shook their heads, Octavius sighed inwardly, and spoke.

"I am not your typical general. Nor am I like most of my Roman colleagues. I do not like this war. I feel it is foolish to fight. My people will gain nothing my conquering you. But they are too stubborn to admit it. That is what Romans do. They fight. Most of my superiors, however, know not what the common soldier faces. There has been too much death on both sides. My men, and the men of your war leaders. I cannot achieve peace. I am but one man. I know that even if you two were my allies, peace would be unachievable. But there is something we can do to save the lives of the men fighting in this war."

Octavius paused, waiting for a reaction. Neither man gave much of a protest, and listened for more information. The General continued.

"In about five days' time, men from my people's government will come and take away the men of yours whom have been captured. They will be sent to the city of Rome, and be executed." Octavius noted there had been no surprised look from the old man Wyatt, and figured he must have known. He appeared wise. "I do not wish for that to , Jedediah and I have formulated a plan to secretly allow your men to 'escape' the prison within these walls. But we cannot achieve this on our own. We need someone on the inside. Someone like you.'

"What can I do?" Wyatt asked, courage in the old man's eyes.

"We need someone ta lead the boys outta here." Jedediah explained, repositioning his hat. "They don't know the path home. But ya do. So, we were hopin' you could help us by leadin' a group every night, and givin' 'em directions to yer cabin."

There was silence in the tent for a while, before Wyatt let out a low whistle.

"This is mighty risky," He said, fingering the whisky bottle he was holding. "You two will both be in some deep horse crap if you're found out."

"We know." Octavius said, determination on his stony face. "But we feel it is worth the risk."

"We do." Jedediah agreed, rising to his feet. "An' if yer wonderin', yes, i trust this here skirt wearin' Roman. No offense."

"None taken." Octavius replied.

Wyatt looked up at both of them, his face emotionless. His mouth then split into a smile, and he gave a small chuckle as he shook his head.

"I'm proud of you, Jed." He said, still beaming. "I knew you'd do great things. If you trust this here Roman, then i suppose I will too. It's good to see there's some hope yet."

"Possibly the end of this war." Octavius said hopefully. He then allowed himself a small smile, and clasped his hands behind his back. "Now. I am sure it has been a long day for you two. I will have quarters prepared for the two of you, and we shall discuss further plans in the morning. Gentlemen, goodnight."

The two Westerners returned the farewell, before leaving with a legionary Octavius had summoned to an empty room nearby. Octavius let out a weary sigh as soon as they had gone, and collapsed down onto his cot. His plan had worked so far,and everything seemed to be going smoothly. And, he thought to himself, he had gained allies. The cowboy trusted him. That would make the plan much easier.

But, there was still something bothering the General. He thought on it, but could not figure out where this uneasy feeling was coming from. And so, deep in thought, he feel asleep.

No one was aware that in the prison block, there was an empty cell.


	12. Chapter 12

The night was calm and quiet, with no sounds above the gentle tapping of soldiers' hobnailed boots on the walls as they paced silently, like ghosts in the soft moonlight. It was like a peaceful scene from a painting. It was almost too calm.

Once again, the General Octavius was having a restless night. He had tried to rest, but his mind refused to let him settle down. Recent events were the cause of his sleeplessness. His mind was still dwelling on the events of the evening.

The old man the cowboy had brought with him was somewhat of an excitement. It meant that the plan could go on. Yet, although the man had agreed to aid him in his mission, Octavius had not yet explained the plan to him.

It would be very dangerous, to everyone involved. If the man Wyatt was caught aiding a Roman, his people would stand against him. The same went for Jedediah. He was one of the Westerner's military leaders. If he was caught, there would be terrible consequences for him. Even worse, if the two Westerners were taken by his superiors, they would surely face execution. The Roman general would not be able to handle such guilt.

There would be consequences for him, too, if the plan failed. He would be stripped of his rank. Taken to stand before the Senate. And, eventually, executed as well. The stakes were high for them all.

With a heavy sigh, he turned onto his back, and closed his eyes. He tried to picture his old childhood home. The little family farm with the olive trees, and the small pond with the geese, and the horse stables…..he missed it all. He missed the simplicity of being young. Of being free from the burden of decision and consequence. When he had no responsibilities, and the worst punishment was missing a night of his mother's delicious pork and olive soup.

Without really realizing it, he began to think about how quickly all of that had been taken away from him. Learning that his father had been appointed governor of one of the far provinces, having to move to the city, going to school with the children who had been rich their entire lives….

He smiled as he thought about his days a student. It had been rough, yes, but worth the effort of learning what he needed to know to get through life.

But then, he saddened as he recalled the day he learned of his father's passing. That was always a thought that upset him. As a child, he tried to act like it did not bother him. He tried to show his strength and bravery. But, unlike the toy armor he would wear while playing with Marcus, his young heart had not been as protected.

The depressed mood and sadness abruptly disappeared as he smiled. He recalled all the adventures he and Marcus had embarked on. He remembered their last adventure, before the burdens of adulthood befell them.

They had both been nineteen at the time. He and Marcus had been studying abroad in Greece. They were studying the great literatures of past Roman historians. Things that he had found interesting, but Marcus had not. He specifically remembered one night, after a long session of reading and studying, Marcus suggesting they go to one of the local resturants in the area on their way home.

He had never been one for eating out or partying, as reflected upon him now in his adulthood. He had always preferred to go back to the little, one room apartment they had been renting, for a quiet evening of reading. But that night, he had decided to go with his keen friend. So they went. They ate and stayed there for a while, talking and laughing good naturedly, when there evening was interrupted.

Three men had walked in, all of them large and muscular beings. Both Marcus and himself had recognized who they were. The leader of the men, who he recalled was named Alcindor, had been one of the children who enjoyed beating on him as a child. Memories of humiliations had flooded his mind, and he had risen to his feet to go back to the apartment.

But, Marcus, being the troublesome young adult he was, had pulled him aside to share his plan of vengeance. Marcus had met a couple of girls while off at the counter, and asked them a favor. He asked for their clothes, so that himself and Octavius could use them as disguises.

Octavius couldn't help but laugh softly to himself as he remembered his disgust. Having to wear the stola and dress of a lady had been rather embarrassing, and probably more humiliating than anything Alcindor had ever done to him. But, Marcus had reassured him of the plan. It was their only chance at vengeance.

So, he and Marcus left and began flirting with the three men. Afterwards, after agreeing to go home with them, home with them, they revealed their identities, much to the horror of them men, said a few words of victory and ran off, dresses lifted.

_Definitely not my most shining moment. _Octavius thought to himself, unable to stop smiling. _But, still, it was one of the funniest things I have ever done. _

Thinking about this past adventure made Octavius' mind drift to thoughts of Marcus. The man who was now his First Centurion had changed over the years. After joining the army, his attitude had softened. He had become more careful; more cautious and alert. He seemed to have very little humor left. He was not _fun _anymore. He was instead a serious, observant man who took his job very seriously.

Everything Octavius had hoped he would become, but now he wished Marcus had not changed.

With a sigh, Octavius sat up and gazed out the window by his bed. The third watch was about to be sounded, Marcus' century's watch, and he decided he should take a short stroll about the camp. He put on his standard military tunic, and opened his door.

"Marcus!" He exclaimed in surprise, staring at the man who had been standing at his door.

Marcus' fist had been raised as if he had been about to knock, and he slowly lowered his hand and stared back at his General. "I...sorry. I did not mean to disturb you."

"You are not disturbing me." Octavius said tiredly, offering a small smile. "I was on my way to see you."

"Oh." Marcus replied, unable to hide a look of mild surprise.

Octavius frowned. "If you do not wish to see me, I will go-"

"No no," The Centurion replied quickly, forcing a smile. "Your company is much needed."

Octavius smiled, and gestured down the path leading to the wall. Marcus nodded once, and began to walk, his General following behind until they reached the wider stretch, where they walked side by side.

"So…" Octavius began, unsure how should go about speaking to his friend now that they were together. "How do you feel about the man the cowboy brought?"

Marcus thought for a moment, his mouth turned in a slight frown. "I am surprised he returned at all." He said, his voice sounding sharp for a moment, showing his disapproval. "But he did, so perhaps there is hope for this mad plan of yours. As for the man….can we trust him?"

"I do not see why not." Octavius replied, giving a small shrug. "He is old and unsteady. I doubt he could do much harm."

Marcus chewed his lip in concentration for moment, before replying. "The older the wiser. He will know more about the war than the blond one. You should be wary."

Octavius sighed deeply, giving a small shake of his head. Marcus seemed to stomping on every choice he made. Was he going about this all wrong? Should he listen to his heart, his friend, or reason?

Almost as if knowing what the General was thinking, Marcus spoke the answer.

"A leader relies on reason and the loyalty of his men." Marcus explained, taking measured steps as they walked, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. "He cannot rely on his feelings. Empathy will get him killed by ruthless enemies that have none. That is why he must kill before it is too late."

Octavius looked at the Centurion, a sense of foreboding ringing through his heart. Was Marcus suggesting they execute the Westerners? That was pure, cold blooded murder, and Octavius knew it.

"You think we should kill them." Octavius spat accusingly, glaring at the Centurion in anger.

Marcus hesitated, licking his lips nervously. "I mean, for the safety of yourself and the men-"

"Marcus that is barbaric!" Octavius yelled angrily, unable to hide his shock. "To suggest such a thing! If we do that we are no better than our enemies."

"Octavius, it is the right thing to do-"

"No." Octavius said firmly, his gaze like fire as he looked at the Centurion. He reached over and yanked his friend's helmet out of his hands, tossing it aside. "Centurion Marcus, I need men I can trust and who will side with me whether I am right or wrong. You have blatantly shown your strong opinion against my decisions, and have offered me nothing but cold acts. As of now you are demoted from the rank of Centurion to that of a common legionary."

Marcus stared at him in disbelief, before his eyes narrowed and he gave a small growl of anger. "This is treason."

"Treason?" Octavius shook his head. "Your challenge to a man higher in authority is treason, soldier. Now get to the barracks before I put you on a charge."

Marcus glared at the General. "You will regret this." He hissed through clenched teeth, before he turned on his heels and marched stiffly away.

Octavius stared after him, his anger slowly ebbing away as his senses were restored. What had he done? He had just demoted his first ranking centurion, and one of his closest friends, to the rank of a common soldier. It was unfair of him. Who would he go to now?

He took a deep breath, about to call to the figure quickly walking away, before he caught it, and released it with a deep sigh of defeat. Marcus had been right. He needed to be stern. He needed to be more strict. And that started with Marcus' demotion.

With another sigh, Octavius turned and walked back to his room to prepare the former papers of the demotion, wishing more than ever for the carefree days of youth once again.


End file.
